


Doves

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Roombas, gotta keep on keepin' on, hella ridiculous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-07-11 04:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7029166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just tell him you fancy him."</p><p>"In my own time."</p><p>Or: The one where Q has a dream, James is a bad flirt with him, Eve is annoyed, and there are rogue Roombas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“His ears stick out.”

“I like his ears,” he replied obstinately.

“He’s always go a Blue Steel pout going.”

“I like his pout.”

“He’s rash, impulsive, and disrespectful.”

“I like all that.”

Eve leveled a thoughtful look at him. “I could’ve sworn those were the very personality traits you were bemoaning earlier,” she commented offhandedly.

“Yes, well, it wouldn’t do to say it in front of him, would it?” He took a long pull of ale and coughed. He doesn’t like beer. But it was what Eve was having, and it had a relatively low alcohol content. “He’d just laugh.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Eve murmured.

~~~

“He’s gawky.”

“No, he’s lean,” he rumbled, glaring over the rim of his scotch glass.

“His hair’s too long.”

“No it’s not.”

“He’s too fussy and waspish.”

“No, he’s careful of his equipment.”

002 smirked. “You’re so defensive when you’re drunk,” he sneered. “Why don’t you say all that to his face?”

He refilled his glass. “He’d run. He’s scared of me.”

“Don’t be so sure of that…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

~~~\0/~~~

“I really hate you.”

“You’re cute. Give me the keys.”

Wordlessly, Q handed over the keys to the newest car. James thought about brushing his hand with his fingertips, then decided against it. It wouldn’t do to frighten the poor boy any more than he already had.

Had Q noticed the unintentional warmth in James’ voice? Had he seen the flirtation for what it was, not a caustic reminder of James’ disregard? Probably not, on either count. That was fine. Everything was going to be fine.

~~~

All was not fine and it was all 007’s fault.

Q drank the last swallow of tea with a faint trace of annoyance. Didn’t _anyone_ know how to make a decent cuppa around here?

“Two corridors down,” he directed, almost lazily. He’d noticed that being calm and aloof at all times infuriated 007, especially on missions that had turned to shit. It was fun. “Turn right. Four guards up ahead.”

“I’ve only got three bullets.”

“Make them count, 007.”

Muffled cursing, something insulting about Q’s mother; Q was unfazed. His mother had been an agent too, though most didn’t know, and she could’ve taken on 007 any day, and won.

007 made his three bullets count, leaving four dead guards, clearing the way to the fire exit. It was a risk, but Q was certain—he was fairly certain—that 007 could take what was thrown at him. He always had before, hadn’t he? No cockup was severe enough. 007 would come through—not unscathed, oh no. But he’d come through.

Or he’d have Q to answer to.

~~~\0/~~~

“He’s the only one who doesn’t know.”

Q started, but did not drop either mug or teapot. No one drank loose-leaf tea but him, which made him very happy. “That’s a rather broad generalization,” he answered Eve smoothly.

“It’s all over the Q branch,” Eve stated calmly, leaning her shoulder against the wall as Q carefully and deliberately dropped one lump of sugar and a tiny stream of milk into his tea. “You should at least tell him.”

“No.” Q raised his mug to his lips, ending the conversation.

“You know he feels the same way, right?”

Q choked, spasmed, and spat out his tea. Eve grinned, diabolical woman that she was. “He doesn’t,” Q said flatly, ignoring the tea dripping from his chin. “He can’t. He’s—he’s James Bond!”

“And?” Eve prodded, handing him a napkin.

“Bond doesn’t—not people like me.”

“’People like you’?” Eve raised one perfect eyebrow. “And just what sort of person is that?”

Ashamed to have admitted even this much, Q shook his head. People his age, people his gender, people with spots on their chin. Gawky people who couldn’t be sensual if they tried. Everyone had always told him that; don’t bother trying to flirt, because he wasn’t any good at it. So why should 007 ever notice him, when there were beautiful women throwing themselves at 007 everywhere he went?

No. Even if everyone else knew, it was best that 007 did not.

~~~

James was fighting with nettle bushes.

He’d lost his earpiece a while back. He’d lost communication with Q; cool, thoughtful, infuriating Q, and now he was alone. He was used to that. He could handle things on his own. But he missed the snide remarks, the calm orders. He’d never felt safer than in the hands of this Q.

What a stupid thing to think. James scowled and paid more attention to where he was going. It’s not like Q would ever go for him. Old, battered, broken, bondless—his name was a cruel irony in that respect—and utterly unable to participate in a normal, healthy, romantic relationship. Q deserved better.

~~~\0/~~~

Q woke up from a nightmare.

It had started out strange: he’d been alone in his office, as usual, long after everyone else had gone. He had just shut down his computer for the night when 007—James, had suddenly rung through his dream-mind—walked through the door.

This would not have been exceptional, since 007—James—James, James, _James_ —was always around at odd hours to return equipment and take his scolding like the professional he was. But in the dream, it had made Q unhappy, even uneasy, to be alone with him.

There had been talk, a space of time that Q barely recalled; and then the feeling of heat, of pressure, of a body against his and a mouth on his neck, and the most delicious promises murmured in his ear as a hand slipped down his trousers…

And then cold, so cold, so infinitely cold, as they plunged into ice-rimed water, and James slipped away from him. Q had opened his mouth to scream but the water had rushed in and all he managed was a few scream-filled bubbles, silver-white, holding every ounce of panic and despair he’d ever held—

—And then he’d woken up.

He thought the name to himself again. James. Not Bond, not an alias, dear god, not 007. That abominable number that’s all he allows himself in his head.

He liked the second part of the dream. The heat. The feel of an erection rubbing on his own, despite the layers of clothing between them. The dirty, absolutely _filthy_ things whispered in his ear. Things he’s only read about, never seen or experienced.

But it was the first and third bits—the unease and the nightmare—that stuck with him.

He didn’t want to lose James.

~~~

James himself was wanking furiously and thinking of holding fragile-looking Q tenderly in his arms. He hadn’t thought like that in a long time. Usually he reserved the word ‘tender’ for steaks. Not that he didn’t want to just devour Q, like the animal James was; but he also wanted to… to…

He daren’t find the words. But he let himself feel it. It felt… good. All those ethereal, fairy-like, beautiful women who could break a strong man’s spine, none had been as—intriguing—as lean, angular, deceptively delicate Q. Beautiful Q. So beautiful. So beautiful…

James groaned, half satisfaction as he came, half frustration that he couldn’t have that beautiful boy. Never. Never have him.

It was calming, in a bitter way.

~~~\0/~~~

It was his dream all over again.

The silence, except for his breath and the tick-tack-click-clack of the keyboard. Occasionally the shuffling noise of mouse on mousepad. The soft glug as he drank stone-cold tea, gone bitter and sharp. The hum of his computers.

How the _hell_ does Bond move so quietly?

“Q,” he said softly, making Q jump almost right out of his skin. “Why are you still here?”

“Because I have work,” he responded flatly, turning a cool stare on Bond. Funny, why did he stop calling him 007 in his head? “Why are _you_ here?”

007 put on a charming smile. Q was not amused. “To return this, of course,” Bond replied, and set a gun, a pen, and a USB on Q’s desk. Q blinked, then felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Appeased, he pulled the offerings further towards him to inspect them.

Gun, fine. Pen, fine. USB, functioning. Q immediately plugged in the little marvel of technology and transferred all data to his laptop, wiping all traces mercilessly. Only when he had scrubbed it completely did he unplug the device and hold it out again. With visible surprise—meaning barely visible at all—Bond reached out and took the USB, fingertips brushing Q’s palm. Q refused to shiver.

“What do you even do, all day, alone?” Bond inquired quietly. His eye were even bluer in the glare from Q’s computer screen.

“Work,” Q answered. His throat was too dry for details. “And I’m not alone, I have all of Q-branch right outside.”

“You’re alone right now.”

“Yes, well, that’s about to change, because I am going home, now.” Q stood jerkily and powered down his laptop, packing up all his papers (how obsolete, but M liked it like that). Bond caught a few fluttering pages as they tried to escape off the edge of the desk; Q snatched at them with a muttered thank you—but Bond stepped back, holding the papers just out of Q’s reach.

Q stared at him for a moment. “…007, give me those papers,” he ordered coldly.

“Make me.”

Q stared some more, wondering if it was worth it to let go of his dignity and make another grab. He decided it was, and lunged forward, grabbing with both hands, fingers closing on open air as Bond stepped sharply away and to the side. There was a teasing smirk now on his face, as he continued to flit away, and Q continued to grab, grunting and snapping out a sharp “Give it _back_ , Bond!” every few lunges. Bond led him on a full circuit of the office, dangling the papers just out of reach, so close, so close—but then he paused for longer than three milliseconds, and, with a triumphant “HA!” Q’s hand closed on the papers.

Bond immediately let go, grabbed Q’s hand, and kissed the inside of his wrist.

There was a moment of absolute stillness, as they stared at each other.

Carefully, one eye on Q, Bond bent his head, brought Q’s arm closer, and kissed him again, very gently. Q was frozen, eyes wide, glasses slipping, completely unsure what to do. What he wanted to do was some kissing of his own, but that was completely out of the question. He tugged uncertainly, but Bond had already pushed his sleeve down, very slowly and gently, and was trailing gentle, almost-not-there kisses down the sensitive inside of Q’s arm.

“This is the part where we drown,” Q wanted to say—but it wasn’t. Not yet. And he was terrified of getting to that point.

Bond’s kisses had reached his elbow.

“Bond—“ But he couldn’t think of how to continue.

“You never call me that,” Bond murmured against his skin. One hand still held Q’s wrist, lightly; the other crept across the intervening space and settled on Q’s waist.

“Please stop.”

Bond immediately stepped away and let go. Q pulled his sleeve straight and went back to packing his papers.

“Goodnight, Q.”

“Goodnight, 007.”

~~~

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

James did not let his guard down for a moment, taking a long, complicated path home, but he allowed part of his mind to obsess over the encounter. He could have done so many things differently. He could have said something, apologised. He could have stopped after the first kiss. He could have never kissed him at all.

 _Technically_ , in James’ opinion, it shouldn’t count. They weren’t really kisses. They were just brushes. But Q probably had a different view. He was probably dowsing his arm in disinfectant at that very moment. Probably hating James. Probably devising ways to avoid him forever.

But he’d called him ‘Bond’. He’d forever just been a number, but for a few minutes he’d had a name. That made James happy.

So happy, in fact, that he actually smiled briefly at the cloudy sky.

Now, if he could only get Q to call him ‘James’… he would die a happy man.

~~~\0/~~~

Q had the dream again.

This time he remembered snatches of the conversation; something about shoes with concealed blades and lighters that were grenades. Then James had taken his hands and kissed the backs, and then the palms, and then his wrists, bracelets of soft, chaste little kisses… vanished as James yanked Q towards him and kissed his mouth fiercely.

Q had barely had time to give a little moan before the waters closed over their heads and they were pulled apart by the current.

He woke up sweating, shivering, panting—but with impatience and longing, not fear. The nightmare of drowning, the unease (no, call it what it was, the positive _fear_ ) of being alone at night, all blotted out by memories of that mouth going from butterfly-soft to ton-of-bricks forceful. But they weren’t memories, because it hadn’t happened.

Q slept again.

When he woke in the morning, the dream had faded, and he was content. Maybe in real life he was terrified and repulsed, and maybe he was ashamed of being just a little bit in love with a double-o, but in his dreams he could forget.

He could not forget the drowning.

It was drizzling again. He buttoned his coat up all the way over two jumpers and a long-sleeved shirt, padded his laptop case, threw his bag over his shoulder, and headed out into the cold and wet. Not too long before it starts to snow. He hates snow. It’s so inconvenient.

Q shivered as a single icy droplet rolled down the back of his neck. Note to self: do _not_ forget scarf again.

He was walking at a brisk pace, head down, keeping to the side of the pavement, squeezing past other, wider pedestrians. He was doing quite well on his own when a silvery Aston Martin he recognized immediately purred up beside him, and Bond rolled down the window to ask casually, “Do you need a ride, Q?”

“You _stole_ that car,” Q retorted in disgust.

“William won’t miss it,” was the bland reply. “Get in, you’re freezing.”

He wasn’t—he was actually beginning to sweat—but he _was_ shivering faintly. So he paused, pretending to think about it, and Bond… waited patiently?

“Fine,” Q allowed at last, and climbed in the back of the car, ignoring the smug smirk on Bond’s face. It was warm in the car, too warm; Q unbuttoned his coat and wished he had the courage to take it off, and his jumpers, too. He wished Bond would stop looking at him in the mirror like that. He wished he’d never stop looking at him like that.

“I’m sorry,” Bond said abruptly.

“For what?” Q almost said—then he caught himself, and replied, a little stiffly, “You are forgiven.”

Bond let out his breath in what could’ve been a sigh. “Thank you.”

This couldn’t be happening. The faint flush in Q’s cheeks from the chill outside deepened. He muttered something about how he would let it slide this time, not quite noticing the implication of his words.

Bond noticed, and maybe his tiny smirk was a little hopeful. But Q didn’t see. He’d gotten out his laptop and was booting it up, hoping to get at least one thing done before they arrived at their destination.

He was so engrossed, in fact, that he didn’t notice Bond actually driving the speed limit, and taking many more turns than strictly necessary for a morning commute, even for ever-watchful Bond.

He didn’t even notice they’d stopped until Bond opened his door and sighed. “You didn’t put on a seatbelt that whole time?” he chided.

“I trust you not to crash into a brick wall with a passenger,” Q replied absentmindedly, continuing the process of creating a virus that would utterly destroy certain major world powers.

Bond was silent for so long that Q noticed, and looked up at him, frowning; and then he realized where they were and announced frankly, “Bullocks.”

They were in the parking garage, specifically, the one where all of Q’s most precious automobiles were kept while in use. There were several empty spaces, but Bond had parked the Aston in exactly the right place, making Q nod in reluctant approval. He closed his laptop, slid it back into its case, and climbed out of the car—and bumped directly into Bond, who had not moved at all.

The bump made Q step back sharply, flushing yet again. He couldn’t bear to look Bond in the eye, so he looked at Bond’s nose, crooked and bent by Lord knew how many fists. “May I please go to work,” he ordered, pleasant but firm.

“No one trusts me.”

Q blinked and looked straight into Bond’s hard blue eyes. Now they were confused, as he repeated, “No one trusts me, for anything.”

“Of course we do,” Q answered waspishly. “We trust you to come back in one piece. We trust you to break equipment. We trust you to be careful with those in your care. Now will you _please_ get out of my way?”

“Is that what you are? In my care?”

“ _No_. Move it, 007, or I’ll kick you in the jewels so hard you turn inside out.”

Now Bond moved, the puzzlement fading to blank blue again. Q wished he’d look at him like he had in the mirror. But instead, Q marched past him, heading for the door. It was only when he heard the sound of the Aston being locked that he realized he didn’t have his pack. He spun, feeling just a little frantic—but there was Bond, carrying it, and not handing it over when Q reached for it. Q frowned, Bond shrugged. So Q led the way through the labyrinthine corridors, stairs, and passages, until they reached Q-branch.

“I usually just take the lift,” Bond murmured in Q’s ear.

“You’re spoiled,” Q replied, as they stepped into the busy space that was his real home. It was a flurry of activity, and he settled at once into the atmosphere of ‘must get this done must get this done must get this done’. He held out his hand without looking, and Bond hooked the strap of his pack on his fingers, perhaps waiting for it to fall so he could catch it. But Q had strong hands; he slung the bag over his shoulder and strode through his domain, greeting his subjects with smiles and vague hellos. Someone handed him his mug, full of perfect tea, and he graced them with a grin. They—he—ducked his head, grinned back, and vanished into the flurry again.

Q went to his office and divested himself of accoutrements; pack, laptop, coat, and both extra jumpers, to reveal a shirt, tie, and sleeveless jumper, and sighed happily as the sweat on his neck and back cooled a little. He’d ordered for Q-branch to be fitted with the best in air conditioning, and he welcomed the coolness gladly.

Only then did he realize Bond had followed him, and shut the door.

The dream shuddered through Q’s mind. But no, there was his beautiful flock of geeklings outside his office, visible through the glass walls. The lights were bright and unforgiving. The ground was solid and warm under his shoes, not traitorously thin ice. And Bond wouldn’t dare kiss him again.

“I received a message last night,” Bond began. “A new mission.”

Q frowned, opened his laptop, and checked his email. Yes, there it was, an email warning him that Bond would be checking in that morning for standard issue equipment.

“Why don’t you check in with Amanda?” Q asked—curiously, because curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

“Because I wanted to talk to you.”

Q went very still.

Bond took this as an opportunity to continue. “It was wrong of me, last night. To—take advantage.” He seemed uncomfortable, like he wasn’t used to apologizing; or at least wasn’t sure it would work. “My behavior was unprofessional and out of line.”

“Is that what you call it.”

“Damn it, Q, I’m trying to apologise!” Bond burst out harshly, more than a little angry.

“I know.” Q licked his lips nervously, unaware of the way Bond suddenly softened, staring at his mouth. “And you already have. So you don’t have to now. Just—why?”

“Because—I—“

They were interrupted by Eve suddenly breezing in with a dazzling smile. “Alright in here, gents?” she asked cheerfully. “You’re not threatening him too harshly, I hope.”

“He wasn’t—“ “I wasn’t—“

Both stopped, horrified that they were about to say the same thing. Eve stepped into the silence smoothly. “I took the liberty of tasking one of your underlings with finding the requisite equipment. Hope you don’t mind, but you seemed busy.”

Bond glared. Eve smiled. Q blushed.

“Yes, well, um,” he muttered, flustered as he pretended to straighten an already perfect pile of papers. “That was very kind of you, Moneypenny. Good day, 007.”

Bond just looked at him, opened his mouth and drew a breath, then closed his mouth and walked out of the office.

Q resisted the urge to stare at his arse as he left, instead staring at Eve suspiciously. She smiled.

“Did you tell him?” she asked.

“No,” Q replied.

“You really should.”

“In my own time.”

~~~

Q trusts him.

Q _trusts_ him.

James shouldn’t be so happy about it. He should be annoyed. Q trusts him to bring things back broken and dented—but he also trusts him to protect people, and come home alive and whole.

James was very much in a mixed state when he picked up his vehicle for this job. He did not get a fancy sports car this time; he got a Fiat. Not that there was anything wrong with Fiats—he just hated them with a passion. It made him scowl, thinking that maybe this was Q’s punishment for what he did; but surely not even Q would be this cruel.

No, it was simply his cover. James sighed and unlocked the car, casting a single longing glance at the silver Aston before climbing in and assuming his role.

~~~\0/~~~

Of course it all went to hell. Of course it did.

002 was a brilliant agent, third greatest of the double-o’s, but he had a weakness, and that was pretty boys of about twenty-five. Q had never felt in danger from him, because they were professionals and Q wasn’t very attractive anyway. But set a flirtatious young man in front of 002 and he was worse than 007. Thankfully, he was better at keeping his identity and secrets from those he bedded.

But it still took several stern words to pry Blake from his flirtations and set to work looking for his target. Q was young, but the agents listened to him. Had he ever steered them wrong? No, and he never would. He refused to. And that was why, when the plan went to shit, 002 followed Q’s orders and made it clear before he was injured or anyone besides a few gunmen were killed.

Q did not breathe a sigh of relief until Blake was well away from the building, the information safely in his pocket. He did not bother telling Blake ‘good job’ because he knew 002 would be smugly congratulating himself, and he’d rather he didn’t get a swelled head like Ja—

No, no, no. _007_. Bond if he must, but never his first name. The others, yes, he called them by first name in his head, because in his head they were his work-cousins, members of his complicated network of pseudo-family. But 007—he was not family. Q didn’t know what he was.

He found himself rubbing his wrist beneath his sleeve. Angrily, he snatched his hand away, curling his fingers into a fist, and reached up the tear off his headset—

“Q,” Bond’s voice crackled over the line. “I—I might need your help.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.
> 
> Birthday present for chrysocyano on tumblr! Love ya!

“You are an _idiot_ ,” Q ground out.

“Save it, Q,” 007 retorted coldly. “Just get me out of here.”

“Brave words when I could just leave you to rot.”

“Are you using my coordinates or not?!”

“Shut up, they’re almost on you. Unless you want to be blown to pieces within thirty seconds?”

Sometimes Q wondered at the tones he and 007 used with each other. Once, a new kid had jokingly asked if fighting was their way of flirting. Q had stared at her blankly, not understanding what she meant, until she ducked her head, mumbled an apology, and scurried away. No one had asked since, but it’d stuck with Q.

He couldn’t flirt. He didn’t know how. But he could rap out orders, and hold his own against even the most stubborn agents. That was something.

But there was no more time for introspection. “Retrieval team in fifty seconds. Climb a tree and be prepared to jump.”

“Q, they’ll see me—“

“Trust me, Bond, now climb the bloody tree.”

The entire room went quiet. Q bit his lip, glad his back was to everyone and his head was already down, tapping away at the keyboard. He hadn’t called Bond by name since… since… he couldn’t remember.

No time.  Bond was climbing the tree, the grunts of exertion and the shivering of shaking branches; Q counted the seconds, holding his breath; Forty seconds… thirty-five seconds… thirty seconds… twenty-five seconds…

Bond took a sharp breath, said, “I owe you, Q,” and leapt.

The leap took him over the cliff. A suicide jump, a desperate man escaping his enemies in death—except Bond still had his emergency parachute, essential in these cliffy places, and there was a stealth-helicopter waiting on a ledge very far below, blades stilled for this moment.

There were no cameras to watch, so Q was forced to just listen. He did so intently, as he always did, for all the agents. Bond was not James Bond, a man whom Q crushed on from afar: he was 007, agent and weapon, and it was Q’s job to return the weapons alive.

A thud, a grunt, the sound of the door opening, the pilot firing up the engine; scrambling, the sound of the door shutting. Then a new voice on the line, an agent Q had not had the pleasure of meeting, saying, “We got ‘im. No injuries except his pride.”

“I will kill you in your sleep.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Please don’t kill him, think of the paperwork,” Q put in absently as he typed away. “And then we’ll have to pull witnesses and there will be a big to-do and somehow all of your personal files will be leaked. There. Disabled the explosives in your stomach. You should be able to pass them as normal, now.”

“ _Explosives_ in my _stomach_?” Bond yelped—although, coming from him, it sounded more like a snarl.

“Remote activated,” Q confirmed with a little bit more unholy glee that strictly necessary. “Don’t worry, they’re encased in a ceramic alloy that can’t be digested. It’ll come through in a day or so.”

“Do you want me to find and save them?” Bond asked sarcastically.

“If you would be so kind. I want to know more about how they’re made—schematics only tell you so much—and since you’ve so generously volunteered to be a test subject for the makers, it’s only fair that you continue to do so for us.”

A long silence, from everyone. Then Bond answered, sounding suspiciously like he was trying not to laugh, “You are a horrible human being.”

“I will take that as a compliment.”

~~~

As soon as James had a suitable bucket, he made himself vomit until nothing came up but bile, and gingerly poked around in the bucket until he found all the little ceramic pill-shaped bombs. There were five in all, and he was certain that, if they had detonated, he’d definitely be dead after a long, horribly painful wait.

How did they get inside him? Vaguely he remembered drinking something tasty but slightly lumpy… he couldn’t remember what, though. Christ, this was maddening.

The other agent offered mutely to take the bucket. James handed it over gratefully.

“Alright,” Q’s voice murmured, making James want to shiver, as it always did. “Wash them off and put them in the snuff box. I’ll be able to scan them better there, as long as you don’t jostle them too much.”

“Q, I’m in a helicopter,” James replied, overly-patient. It had been a long day. “I can’t _not_ jostle them.”

“None of that, now, 007. Wash them.”

Growling insults, none of which he actually meant, James used a water bottle to gently rinse the explosives in his palm, then took out his “snuff box” and dumped the pills inside. There was a special gel within that would hold the pieces still and conduct the electrical readings, so that when James closed the box and held it flat on his palm, the explosives were securely held without any hope of jiggling or jostling. Q was so very prickly about things. One of his charms.

James caught himself before he could smile fondly at the thought of Q berating him for “deliberately tampering with his new toys”.

An appreciative sigh came through his earpiece, and he felt a faint stirring below his belt. “Beautiful,” Q sighed enviously, “Absolutely brilliant. It’s too bad you had to kill all the researchers; I’d’ve loved to talk to them about the triggers in that thing.”

“Next time I fall into the hands of a bunch of mad scientists I will gladly bring one home to you as a present,” James replied indulgently, then realized the other agent was staring at him. James coughed and continued gruffly, “What’ve you got?”

“If you do bring one back, please remember not to put a bow on them. They’re tiny shrapnel bombs; they’d’ve launched metal scraps as well as their own shell into your stomach lining, and the explosion would probably have ruptured your organs. You’re lucky they’re not—oh.”

“’Oh’ what?” James demanded sharply.

“Here it says you’re supposed to have swallowed six.”

“There was only five.”

“Yes, 007, believe it or not, I can count single digits.” Frantic typing; what was Q doing? “I’ve only detected and disarmed five. Are you sure there are no more in your vomit?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“How vexing.” The typing slowed. “How do you feel about laxatives?”

“If you try to force laxatives on me I will tie your—“

“We’re here,” the agent sitting across from James interrupted.

~~~\0/~~~

Q spent a whole day examining the tiny bombs. He recreated them to the last grain, and detonated the copies in a pig’s stomach, proving to himself that, had he not disabled them, they would have shredded Bond’s stomach. Then he borrowed a whole dead pig from ballistics, tamped six mini-bombs down its gullet, and set them off. The pig body’s middle expanded, and the whole corpse shuddered violently, but there was no sign of it from the outside. Untraceable until autopsy. Q had to hand it to them, they were intelligent. Dead, but intelligent.

He shoved a cable-camera down the beast’s throat and viewed the insides. Again, the stomach was absolutely shredded; the surrounding muscles were horribly damaged as well, and the organs. He was no physician, but he was pretty sure that, if the pig had not been dead already, it would’ve been shortly.

He sent the pig back to ballistics and returned to his army of geeklings.

Bond was waiting for him outside his office, arms folded tightly, feet braced, looking murderous. He was also clutching his snuff box in one hand.

“I trust it went well?” Q commented lightly, passing Bond and entering his office. He didn’t really mean to hold the door, but he did, and Bond slid in after him, following to the desk at a healthy distance. Q seated himself, leaned his arms on the edge of his desk, and put on a mockingly attentive look. Mockery was what he resorted to when he was nervous or otherwise unhappy. And he was very nervous and unhappy.

Bond carefully set the snuffbox on the cluttered expanse of wood between them. “There’s your sixth explosive, sanitized and unarmed,” Bond grunted.

Q picked up the box, took out the explosive, and examined it carefully. He was looking for any differences between it and the five others nestled neatly in Q’s Drawer Of Dangerous Stuff (right-hand file cabinet second drawer up). Nope, nothing; except…

“007,” he said slowly, “Why are there scratches on this?”

Bond… actually looked embarrassed, and muttered something along the lines of having to sort through excrement with “a kind of fork thing”.

“Yes, but that wouldn’t account for these. Look.” Q pulled out a magnifying glass and held out both it and the hand upon whose palm rested the explosive. Bond took the magnifying glass and peered at the pill, perhaps leaning a little too close. But then he frowned, seeing the tiny scratches that looked like…

“Those are runes,” Bond noted grimly, straightening and handing Q back the magnifying glass. “Poorly translated and badly written, but someone tried their best.”

Q nodded, pulling both hands back, left curling around the explosive, right tightening around the handle of the mirror. “Can you read it?”

Bond snorted arrogantly. Q glared, and, amazingly, Bond subsided, before answering, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I can. It’s a very literal translation of “death by fire”.”

Q’s mouth tightened. Bond paused, looking at him, then smirked.

“What, are you concerned for my safety?” Bond asked casually, leaning his hands on the edge of the desk. “You don’t need to worry your tousled little head about me. I can handle anything.”

A fiery kiss, and then icy water—

Q stood suddenly and went to his Dangerous Stuff drawer, kneeling to tug it open and find an evidence bag to put the explosive in.

“Q… I didn’t mean…”

He ignored Bond, standing with a wince as his knees cracked, and locked the file cabinet, shoving the key deep into his pocket. “I’m getting old,” he muttered to himself.

“Don’t say that,” Bond commanded sharply, startling Q into turning around. Bond looked angry again, but it was a different kind of angry, a soft, pleading angry, if such an expression could ever exist on Bond’s craggy face. Q was abruptly aware of every inch of his rumpled self, his clothes, his hair, his own body shivering like Bond’s stare was ice. He was also aware of the fact that he felt completely naked before Bond, even with his multiple layers, because suddenly he was absolutely defenseless against that face and those eyes.

Q hugged himself tightly and stepped back a little. “Wh-why not?” he demanded—it came out a squeak.

“You’re not old.” Bond had begun to move closer, slowly, gently, as if Q were a frightened animal. “You’re not. You’re… Christ, Q, you’re so young, it scares me.”

Q backed up completely, pressing into the corner, mouth tight, eyes wide, staring at Bond. Bond, who dug his hand through his close-cropped hair, looking practically distressed. Bond, who had just admitted to being _scared_.

“I keep thinking, this is it, this is the day, this is when he’ll snap, and you never do,” he continued, speaking a little faster. “There’s so much pressure on you, and you just take it. Maybe I’m just old, maybe I’m just that broken, but _you_ , Christ, you don’t even bend, you’re there with plans, procedures—“

“You’re not,” escaped Q, before his mouth snapped shut again.

Bond stopped sidling towards him. “Not what?” he asked, carefully. He still looked so distressed and unhappy. Q took a tiny step forward, then another.

“Not broken.”

There was absolute silence and stillness, as Bond just stared at him, surprised. Q looked down at his toes.

“…You’re…” But Bond did not continue, because at that moment someone knocked on the door. He whirled, hand going automatically to his gun, and Q’s head snapped up, cheeks flaming. That’s right. He didn’t opaque the walls. Everyone could see the drama in the quartermaster’s quarters. N-not that it _was_ drama; Bond was just being silly. And lying. Yes, he had to have been lying. Q consoled himself with that; Bond was a liar, and did not actually care.

His heart hurt, but the rest of him calmed, and he went to the door confidently. It was only Eve, after all. Even if she was glaring over Q’s shoulder, surely she couldn’t be glaring at Bond.

“Can I talk to 007 for a moment?” Eve inquired coldly as soon as the door was opened fully.

“Moneypenny, I don’t think—“

“Sure,” Bond interrupted, and walked briskly to the door. Q stood aside at a healthy distance and ignored the single glance Bond shot him. It would only make him blush again.

When both agents were safely away, Q deliberately turned his back, opaqued the walls, and continued working. He’d already lost enough time as it was.

~~~

Moneypenny was, justifiably, pissed.

“What did you _do_ to him?” she hissed when they made it to her office, in complete silence.

“I talked to him,” James replied. “I… may have gone a bit too far.”

“’May have’?! James, you frightened the wits out of him! Or did you not notice that you literally had him backed into a corner?” snarled Moneypenny. “This has gone far enough. Stop pushing him. He has enough to worry about. _Including_ you.”

James went very still, staring at her. “Including me?” he asked softly.

“Yes. And that’s all I’m going to say.” She turned and grabbed a folder off her desk, shoving it in James’ face. “Take the bloody mission. Leave Q alone. And come home in one piece.”

~~~\0/~~~

Five days later, another agent was force-fed six miniature bombs. She vomited them up as soon as possible despite Q’s assurance that he’d already deactivated them, and locked them in her own snuffbox. If, somehow, they did detonate, the resulting explosion would be reasonably absorbed by the gel. Q had developed it himself, after all.

He studied them, but they were the exact same as the others, except that two held clumsy “death by fire” scratches. Someone was trying their damnedest, and failing.

Q decided to test the new ones. He borrowed another dead pig, and discovered that the new ones… were exactly the same. No more or less deadly, no change in design, nothing. He’d hoped there’d be something, but…

“I think you missed a scientist,” he told Bond the moment he stepped into Q’s office.

Bond frowned. “What? No, I dropped them off for questioning,” he replied, a little waspishly.

Q stared at him blankly. “You… brought one back?”

“I promised to bring you back a mad scientist, and I did. Here are his blueprints.” Bond stalked over and threw down a roll of paper. Q was still staring at him.

“I thought you were joking.”

“I don’t joke. Now, what do you mean, I ‘missed a scientist’?”

“These.” Q held up the two newest scratched-up devices. “Either that or someone really wants to continue their work, but doesn’t know how to go about it. They say the same thing, correct?”

Bond inspected them and nodded. “Yes, just “death by fire”, though with a steadier hand.”

“Someone superstitious, as well as bad at their job?”

“Possibly.” Bond paused, then cleared his throat.

“If you’re going to apologise, don’t,” Q cut in quickly, before Bond could screw it up again. “Moneypenny already chewed you out, that’s enough for me.” He managed to meet Bond’s surprised gaze for all of ten seconds, before he returned his eyes to his work. “Thank you for the mad scientist. Good day, 007.”

“Why don’t you ever call me by name?” Bond asked softly.

“Because I never thought to. Good day, 007,” he repeated, impatiently, not looking up.

For once, Bond took the hint, and left.

Q took a deep breath, let it out calmly, and sent an email to the interrogation department, asking them if he could come in and question the mad scientist. He received a curt assent and something that boiled down to “don’t cock it up”. Q sighed, packed up his laptop, collected a couple geeklings, and headed to Interrogation.

He got to play good cop. He brought in two cups, one of cool water, one of warm tea. The scientist looked up sharply, expression terrified—and then scornful.

“Who’re _you_?” asked he.

“Call me Q,” Q answered cheerfully. “Water?”

The scientist shook his head. Q shrugged and sat, swinging his laptop case up on to the table.

“What’s that?” the scientist asked sharply.

“A laptop,” Q answered, amused. What had they done to make him afraid of a simple computer? “We’ll get to that in a moment. Are you sure you don’t want some water? It’s not laced with anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’d be very stupid to brew my tea with drugged water, don’t you think?”

The scientist swallowed hard, staring longingly at the cup, but shook his head again. Q pushed the cup closer to him anyway, and took out his laptop. He gave his sunniest, sweetest smile.

“You know the man who brought you in?” he reminded the scientist. “The one who probably blew up your entire lab and incinerated all your work? Well, that fellow answers to me,” he lied glibly. “So do the toughs outside.”

“You’ve still got spots on your chin!” the scientist blurted in disbelief. “How can—“

“ _Silence_ ,” Q commanded quietly, in the tone he’d often heard Bond use, and the man shut up. Then he smiled again. “It doesn’t matter if I’ve got spots, what matters is that, if we get this over with quickly, I’ll have you transferred to a nice, cushy cell where no one will threaten you. How does that sound? I can do that. Just fake a document, breach security, and poof! The charges are minimized, my friend. Don’t tell anyone though,” he warned playfully in a whisper, bending a little closer; the scientist did too, automatically. “They’re already concerned that I’ve read all their files. Now. What do you know about these?” He placed his collection of little explosives in a small gel-filled tin gently on the table.

The scientist blanched. “Nothing,” he whispered.

“Oh, come now,” Q scoffed, “You must have some idea. You’re intelligent, aren’t you?”

“No.” The scientist slumped, suddenly looking embarrassed. “I… this wasn’t the project I was working on.”

“What were you working on?” Q asked, genuinely curious.

“Robotics. A better Roomba, to be precise.”

Q stared at him for a moment. Then he packed up his laptop and the explosives, murmured an “excuse me”, and left the room.

Bond was, of course, already stepping from the room behind the one-way mirror. “In my defense—“ he began, but Q interrupted.

“A Roomba? You brought me a man working on _Roombas_?!” he hissed, so viciously that the others in the corridor backed up a few steps. Bond remained where he was, looking stubborn. “And don’t give me that look, 007! Do you know how important these are?! That’s two—two!—double-o’s that have been fed these! Someone knows how to find secret agents, because for Christ’s sake you can’t tell me they haven’t been doing this to agents from other countries!”

“Q—“

“Don’t talk while I’m talking, you muscle-bound buffoon!”

And, for a wonder, Bond shut up.

“Three seconds! You had a window of three seconds to grab the right scientist, and I know for a fact you could’ve done it! You’ve done more with less! But no, no, you had to get sloppy and grab the first person in a lab coat you could find. And don’t try and tell me he could be lying because you don’t believe that either!” Q took a deep breath and forced himself to be visibly calm. He had never snapped like that before in public, and it made him feel… guilty. Unprofessional.

He turned on his heel and reentered the interrogation room, smiling a little. “So sorry,” said he. “Where were we?”

“You… you wanted to know what I was working on,” the engineer-not-scientist answered nervously.

“Oh, yes. Please, tell me about that.”

The engineer was only too happy to tell him. He was not very good at explaining, but Q was able to grasp what he was trying to say, and asked questions that helped the engineer relax. A rookie mistake. Never relax behind enemy lines. But Q also found that, when he smiled, the engineer blushed; when he asked pertinent questions that he genuinely did not know the answer to, the engineer beamed. He was making the engineer feel important.

And then, seamlessly, Q pushed him into gossiping about the other divisions that the engineer had worked with. Most was secondhand, heard-around-the-water-cooler gossip; but there were still pieces that confirmed rumors MI6 had caught floating around. Pieces like where the main HQ of this group was, and who was allowed to visit, and _why_ they were all working on such seemingly harmless products.

Q decided to apologize to Bond, as he realized the uses of a Roomba as a stealth mechanism.

And then the engineer—Bob, what an innocuous name—came to the part where there was a Demonstration. The capital letter was almost audible, as Bob gave a tiny shudder, and the flush of excitement faded.

“What was the Demonstration?” Q asked gently.

“You know that ballistics gel gun people use? Well, they made a whole pig sculpture, organs, muscles, everything but the nerves and veins, and stuffed some of—some of those—pill things down into its stomach. And then they pushed the button.” Bob shuddered again, arms wrapped around himself. “They said that was what would happen to us if we failed to finish our projects.”

Q nodded slowly. “Well,” he said. “I just have one more question.”

“What is it?”

“How do you feel about laxatives and vomiting?”

~~~

James had been watching the two chat for about two hours now, arms crossed, feet braced, brooding. He knew he was brooding, and he didn’t care.

Was it his fault, that he hadn’t actually had three seconds? He’d lied to Q, said he had more time, but surely he could be forgiven for grabbing the first lab coat he came across. Now that he was staring ( _not_ out of spiteful jealousy) at the picture they made, two men obsessed with their work, he could see that what he had mistaken for ink or gunpowder on “Bob”s hands was actually grease, probably from an engine, or polishing tiny mechanical pieces. His coat had come undone, showing dirty coveralls beneath. Of course. Bond should have seen it. But he had been so smug, so eager, that he hadn’t noticed.

Well, he _would_ notice next time, and then he wouldn’t have the humiliation of being shouted at in public.

“How do you feel about laxatives and vomiting?” Q asked Bob, and James’ face split into a grin.

~~~\0/~~~

He had the dream again, but this time, he was ready.

Q was very good at lucid dreaming. So when he found himself alone, in the dark, in his office, and James appeared, he _willed_ James away, and indeed, James just suddenly wasn’t there. Dream-Q sighed and sat at his desk, and let the lucidity drift away. What did his subconscious want him to work on now?

Hands on his shoulders, a kiss on the back of his neck; terrified, Dream-Q shot to his feet and whirled around, but James wasn’t there. In his lucidity, he made himself stomp to the door, open it—

Freezing water rushed in, and he screamed, but the water—

He made himself wake, shivering, panting, clutching the sheets. His cat was curled on his chest, purring. He moved the animal to his stomach, where it wouldn’t make him think of drowning.

He slept again, and for some reason, the dream came again.

“I don’t love you,” Dream-Q snapped at Dream-James. “I don’t even want you. I don’t want to have sex with you. I just want to be friends.”

James smiled and Q’s stomach twisted with something like fearful happiness. “And then what do you want to be?” James asked softly.

“Just friends!”

“Then why do you want me to kiss you?”

“I—I—I don’t!”

“Why do you dream about it?”

Dream-Q’s face was burning. He looked around desperately for an exit, but suddenly the door was gone, and the room outside his office was full of water.

James was suddenly there, and Q’s feet were frozen to the ground. All lucidity was gone. Now he was stuck in this dream: stuck with James stroking his jaw and neck; stuck with the gentlest kiss; stuck with fingers running through his hair; stuck with the urge to fall into James’ arms and never let go…

Water rose slowly to their knees. Q immediately wrapped his dream-arms around James’ dream-waist, clinging tightly and willing the water away. But it rose anyway.

“Drown in me,” James murmured.

“Wh-what?”

“That’s what the water is, isn’t it? Drowning in love for me?”

“N-no, not at all, never—"

“You still claim you don’t love me?”

“I don’t!”

The water rose over his crotch. He hissed and pressed closer to James’ warmth. James, who held him and kissed him, rubbed his back, made his knees weak—

“FINE!”

Q shoved away, stumbled, shuddered at the loss of warmth. “Fine, then! I fancy you, I might love you, I don’t know! I don’t _want_ to, though! That’s why the water’s cold, because I don’t want to fancy you when you’ll just leave me or die and break my heart like you have with all those others before me. I HATE being in love with you!”

And suddenly the water was warm, and he wasn’t afraid.


	3. An Interlude With Miss Moneypenny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this piece in mind anyway but I wasn't sure how to write it, until a (couple of actually) bumblebee(s) asked for clarification on some points. So here is an interlude with Eve.

Eve Moneypenny was very annoyed.

007 was not her friend. He was an acquaintance that she went for beers with and hoped he didn’t die in the line of duty. Q, however, _was_ her friend, and she felt that current circumstances were not in his best interests.

It wasn’t for her or anyone else to decide his best interests (or indeed anyone’s interests). Q would do what was best for Q. But it seemed to be taking him a long time to figure out what that was.

Eve stamped an envelope viciously. It was yet another standard reply to some jumped-up minor official who thought they could handle MI6 better than M could. There were days, times, and situations where Eve thought someone else, _anyone_ else, would be better; but today she was angry, and when she was angry she tended to seize her loyalties and hold them in a death grip. One of those loyalties was M, another was MI6, and then there was Q.

She was not sure _why_ she was getting this involved. Perhaps she was just bored. Also, she was pretty sure she had seen fear on Q’s face, the day 007 cornered him in Q’s office, literally. She’d just gone to drop off some papers to an underling, but everyone had been watching the drama with wide eyes, and Eve just could not stand there and let 007 get away with…

Eve realized she’d been staring at her computer screen blankly for several minutes. She scowled, annoyed with herself, and got back to work.

Her temper had cooled by the time she finished her current load of papers and emails. So she began the tedious process of weeding through requests for MI6 to send “their best operatives” by level of severity. Personal requests for bodyguards and the like were ranked by official, because that was the way Eve preferred. When she had her six neat stacks of papers, she took the Highest Priority papers to M for him to accept and parcel out to the various agents. He’d stopped double-checking about a week in, trusting her to sort them properly (which she always had and always would).

Sometimes Eve got bored and restless, but whenever she felt like fieldwork she felt her hands on a gun, finger squeezing the trigger, and knowing before the bullet left the barrel that it was going to hit…

Maybe another woman would have gone on with her fieldwork and continued to rise through the ranks. Eve just felt so tired whenever she thought about it; and the general atmosphere of hate whenever she had walked into a room that held another agent… she was tired of being hated, tired of being told she’d only gotten her job out of pity, tired of threats, even now that 007 wasn’t dead anymore. Tired of it all.

But she was not going to give in and leave. Not ever.

Almost with a sigh of relief, she returned her thoughts to What To Do About Q.

She’d already hinted to him. She’d already told him outright. She had done everything in her power to make him realize that the affection between him and 007 was mutual. But he’d either ignored her or been afraid. So. What now? She wanted to help him come to terms with his affection—help him see that it was alright to fancy an agent, as long as he remembered the rules—but it was turning out to be impossible. It was almost infuriating, how he would moon over 007 to Eve and then turn around and be brusque and scornful to the agent. Eve understood, though—at least, she thought she understood.

Maybe she didn’t, and that was the whole problem. Maybe she was pushing too hard, just as hard as 007 had. Maybe, if she backed off a little…

007 walked through the door and Eve immediately looked down, reading her papers. He was probably here to be briefed on a mission. That wasn’t Eve’s problem.

Except 007 suddenly stopped in front of her desk, and did not make any snarky remarks. Eve tried to ignore him, but… he was just so _quiet_. She couldn’t even hear his breathing. And he was waiting for her to speak first.

Finally, she looked up, with a carefully neutral expression. “Can I help you, 007?” she asked calmly, noting the bags under his eyes, the deepened lines of his face, the strange, feverish light in his eyes.

“I need to ask you a question,” he rapped out.

“What is it?” she asked, curious as well as annoyed.

“How do I get him?”

Eve stared at 007. “’Get’ him?” she repeated quietly.

“Yes.” 007 looked unconcerned, defiant, even. “I… I want to… be with him.”

“He is _not_ another one of you dalliances to be fooled with and—“

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Eve tensed. That was another thing she was tired of; being interrupted. “What _are_ you asking, agent?”

007’s defiance flickered. He looked down. He actually _scuffed his toe_ against the carpet like a shamed child. “I want to _be_ with him,” he whispered hoarsely, and this time Eve took pity on him. With a few taps on her keyboard she disabled the videos and mics in the room; not that that would stop Q, but it would give them a few minutes unobserved.

“Have you actually told him, pointblank?” Eve asked carefully.

“No.”

“Perhaps that would be best.”

“But I’ve been trying to catch his attention for a bloody month and he won’t see it!”

“Because it’s only been a month and he’s not used to flirting,” Eve replied coolly, hiding her glee. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to lift another finger after all. “Also you keep scaring him. Why are you coming to me for advice, anyway?”

“You’re closest to him.”

Eve snorted. “Hardly! You’re better off asking… what is it now?” as 007 shook his head a little.

“No one else will talk,” he informed her gloomily. “I tried asking some of his favorites, but they wouldn’t tell me anything. Not what he likes, not what he hates, nothing. One of them told me to bugger off. I did.”

Eve’s eyebrows rose of their own accord. Wow. He must really have been feeling beat down, to obey someone lower in station than M. “They hate you. You hurt their leader.”

007 had a look like a sulky child. It made Eve press her lips together and frown at him. The sulk faded, to make way for genuine doubt and something that could’ve been misery, if 007 ever felt enough self-pity for misery. He was more of a self-loathing man.

“I want him to want me,” 007 muttered, eyes on Eve’s desk.

Eve was just about to answer, when a tiny beep from her computer warned that the cameras and mics were back on. “If that will be all, agent,” she said briskly, sitting up straight, startling 007, “I need to return to my work. Go to Q if you have further questions.” And she gave the tiniest wink and the most minuscule smirk.

007 paled, but nodded, firmed his chin, and strode briskly from the room.

Eve waited until she was sure he was gone and not coming back before she grinned widely, turned to the only visible camera in the corner behind her, and said clearly, “Be ready, Q. He’s got something important to tell you.”

And then she went back to work, bending her head and trying not to laugh.


	4. Chapter 4

Q was nervous as a cat and that made him angry.

Why should he be nervous? It was probably just something routine. Something easily pushed off on someone else. Something—

“Sir?”

“Hm? Oh.” He realized he was fussing with the newest batch of (sanitized) pills. Everyone had just decided to call them that, though they were considerably larger than standard medication, only just small enough to be slipped down a throat with a bit of lumpy drink. This was the third half-dozen to pass into MI6’s hands, and despite Q’s reassurances, everyone was still wary of them. “Alright, now, where was I?”

He was in an impromptu meeting about What To Do With The Pills. He still wasn’t used to big brawny veteran agents calling him ‘sir’, but as long as it got Q-branch more funding, he was content.

They were in the cramped, dingy room that was all that was available at the moment. There were other, more important meetings going on elsewhere in more comfortable settings—important meetings where some of the members here would be missed at. Q hoped that meant he would get what he wanted.

“These miniature ceramic explosives could be useful to us,” he repeated patiently. “I can refine them, make them smaller and still as dangerous; but to do that, we require more funds. It would take time and money to—“

“Time and money we don’t have!” barked a man with a bristling mustache and a vein in his forehead. “Just because of ‘could’s and ‘maybe’s—“

“If you please, sir,” Q interrupted gently. Mustache subsided with a glare. “Thank you. The time, we can adjust; I have associates from other departments who owe me favors. With our combined efforts, we could bump the due date up by months. That is, we can if you ladies and gentlemen will allow it.”

There were surprised glances around the table. Q understood. They had expected some cocky little bastard demanding compensation for nothing, but he’d dealt with this in university. He had to flatter them, while convincing them that he—

“How do we know you’re the only one who knows how to work on these things?” another mustachioed, this time slightly gaunt man demanded.

Ah. There it was. “Sir, you wound me. You have all seen my track record, no doubt. You have heard what I can do. Would you like a demonstration?”

Silence. Hmm. Unexpected. And they all looked uneasy, some shifting in their seats. Perhaps they had actually seen him in action. A mixed blessing, that. He continued, “I know I can do this. I have already reproduced flawless copies of those we have recovered. I have developed a way to disarm them, and shared it with our allies. I have saved three of our agents. With your support, ladies and gentlemen, I can develop a way to retaliate.” He stopped there. Let them think, and don’t lay it on too thick.

The youngest member of those gathered before him, a tiny woman of about thirty, cleared her throat. “How much?” she asked, voice carrying well.

Q named an outrageous budget, expecting to be bargained with. And indeed, there followed an intense session of everyone arguing over how much the Q-branch should receive for this “side-project”. It irked Q to hear that term. He hated “side-projects”. Everything was important. Some things were more important than others. That didn’t make it less necessary to finish them.

Q heard voices begin to rise. He stood and cleared his throat, and the noise died to faint grumbles. “Ladies and gentlemen, please,” he spoke into the ensuing calm. “There’s no need for raised voices. I am simply asking for the chance to take this threat and turn it into a weapon.”

“You say it’s a threat because it almost killed your precious 007!” Mustache snapped, and a terrified silence fell like a guillotine.

Q smiled, and it took every ounce of willpower to keep it from becoming a snarl. “I believe you are mistaken, as many are, as to my relationship with the double-o agents,” he began, but Mustache interrupted him again.

“It’s not the double-o’s, it’s that Bond man in particular! Everyone knows—“ And then he stopped, and stared at Q.

Something must have shown on his face; he knew his voice was very cold and dangerous as he said, very softly, “Everyone is wrong. 007 is, at most, a coworker. Not even that. I tell him what to do, and he does it. Just as _you_ are going to do what I tell you, and shut up.”

Mustache shut up.

Q was very angry now, and stared around at them all. Some looked ashamed, some dropped their gazes, some shrank back in their seats; and all were afraid to some degree.

Well. It seemed someone _had_ shown them what he could do. Excellent.

“This meeting is over,” Q stated, still cold, dangerous, and quiet. “I will not work with gossipmongers and gullible fools. Have the paperwork for the extra funds on my desk by 10:00 hours tomorrow.”

And Q gathered his papers and laptop and little ceramic nightmares and left.

Of course, stalking through the halls, frightening people out of the way with his gimlet glare, helped cool his temper considerably. By the time he was in Q-branch, he wanted to fall down and maybe cry a little. He wasn’t used to being like that. He wasn’t sure he hadn’t fucked the whole thing up. Someone pushed a mug into his hands. Someone else took his bag with his laptop in it. A third person took his folders and baggie of explosives. He allowed himself to be herded to his office, sipping the tea frequently (someone was learning to get it right). Tea made everything better. He clung to that thought, clung like a drowning man clings to a piece of floating flotsam. Tea makes everything better.

He murmured assurance that he was alright, that he’d get them the funding if it took a hundred meetings, that whoever had brewed his drink was an angel.

“Oh. That would have been me,” said a familiar voice from the single chair in front of Q’s desk.

The attentive minions fell back a little, as Q whirled, slopping tea over the rim of the mug. A knot of emotions immediately formed in his chest upon seeing Bond sprawling elegantly—was he ever anything _but_ elegant?—in the middle of his office; but he was so tired, all he said was, heavily, “Is this about whatever transpired between you and E—Moneypenny?”

Bond actually looked uncomfortable. “Yes.”

“Can it wait til I finish my tea?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He turned around, smiled ruefully at his anxious, hovering geeklings, and ordered them all back to their posts, albeit with the change of ordering R to alert M that all had not gone well and Q would like to ask for his backup on certain points. The geeklings’ eyes all widened as everyone heard—he’d pitched his voice to carry, because they all needed to know.

“This does _not_ mean,” he continued into the silence, “That we won’t get our funding or that we’re about to all be sacked. But it does mean we’re going to have to fight. I want someone to put together a proper report on behalf of the whole of Q-branch of exactly what we’re working on, the budgets for each, the time frames we’ve been given, and how much tea and coffee we consume. I don’t care who does it. If multiple people leave reports on my desk, I’ll choose the one I like best. Go.”

Immediately the flurries of activity began again; R hovered, looking uncertain, as he glanced into the office and at Bond. “I’ll take care of this,” Q murmured. That seemed to be enough, because R nodded, turned, and walked away.

Q stepped into his office and closed the door, walking heavily to his desk and pressing the button that would opaque the glass of the walls. “What did you want to talk about?” he sighed.

“I can go.”

Q stared at Bond, a little slow at comprehending. Bond looked rather uncomfortable. “If you want me to,” he clarified. “I can… I’ll just leave.”

“No.” Now Q was curious, and angry all over again. He leaned over his desk, bracing his hands, and mustered up a scowl. “You’re not leaving this room until you explain why hell you’ve been acting like such an idiot.”

There was a space of silence. Then, slowly, a blush crept into Bond’s cheeks, his expression deadpan and he asked with only a hint of inflection, “Will you go to dinner with me?”

This was so unexpected that the wind was knocked right out of Q’s sails, as something frightened and excited filled the spot where his anger had been. He had conquered the dream, he had come to terms with his feelings, and so the fear was minimal; but it was still there. Although, it was hard to feel afraid when Bond made an effort to be awkwardly charming.

Q realized he’d already decided. “Depends on where you want to go,” he retorted, neither yes nor no. But the answer transformed Bond’s face, a slow smile, warm eyes with crinkles at the corner, relaxed forehead.

“There’s a pub I’m particularly fond of,” he replied. “Would you prefer that or a fancy, expensive French place?”

Q accidentally shuddered. “I’ll take the pub. When and where?”

“Is it alright if I pick you up? Tonight, at seven?”

Tonight? _Tonight_? With the day he’d had so far, and it not even lunch yet? “Seven is fine.”

~~~

James could not have been happier if he’d been given unlimited wishes by a particularly indulgent fairy godparent. No, strike that; he could be happier, if only Q would do more than go to dinner with him.

Not sex; James was tired of sex. He just wanted to, as he had put it so succinctly to Moneypenny, _be_ with him.

James was so excited about his planned date that he was almost happy, and when ordered to come to M’s office, he went promptly and willingly. Moneypenny raised an eyebrow at him, smirking faintly.

“Dinner date,” James answered her unspoken question, actually beaming back.

She looked absolutely stunned, and then she laughed delightedly. “Don’t cock it up, James,” she chuckled, “But congrats all the same.”

“Thank you.” And James continued on in to M’s office.

~~~\0/~~~

Q’s day plummeted, and not even the promise of respite with Bond could make him even the least bit not-miserable.

First, 003 crashed his car, and the mechanics immediately took their complaints to Q. Then someone managed to blow up one of the labs, destroying two projects and disturbing three others. And then Q received word that he was expected to take charge of Bob.

“What the hell am _I_ supposed to do with him?!” he’d snapped at the interrogation liaison. “I don’t have the time, facilities, or people to keep him out of trouble!”

The liaison had shrugged. “Boss said you’d figure something out,” he’d mumbled, not looking at Q; and then he’d fled.

Q had groaned, and called in a geekling to direct Bob to the engineering department that was investigating the plans Bond had saved. Maybe they could glean some knowledge from the man, even if he was only low-level. He seemed to have an excellent memory and a penchant for eavesdropping. That meant they’d have to either be very careful or very sure to lock him up where he couldn’t blab. No, they had to do both.

Q put his head in his hands and glanced at the time on his laptop. It was one o’clock.

There was issues with equipment. No less than seven hackers attempted to breach Q’s security. Three officials compromised information online without knowing, and Q had to deal with the resulting mess (of course he kept an eye on every official in MI6, he was no fool). Several times that day he regretted his promotion. Several times he remembered no one could do this but him.

The reports from his geeklings for the next meeting were piling up—electronically, of course. Only a few submitted paper copies. Both of Q’s desktop computers were running, and he had hooked up all four monitors, as well as having his laptop. He only emerged from his office when necessary. As the day crawled on and on and on, things that were “necessary” began to shrink in number. Now he was absorbed in his codes, only occasionally shooting emails to relevant persons. The only bright spot was that Bob had hit it off with the other engineers, and they were all now giddily redesigning what they had dubbed “Death Roombas”. This was courtesy of their newest member, whose name, bafflingly, was Merwin Mie.

There was light at the end of the tunnel. Q never forgot that, at seven, he was going grab dinner with Bond. Although after dinner he needed to come back to work the night through. This was the only course of action Q could think of. Eat quickly, say thank you, pay for his share, and leave again. Yes, perfect. On to the next would-be hacker.

He was so wrapped up in his work that he only noticed Bond was there when two blunt fingers tapped his shoulder. He jumped and looked up so quickly his neck cracked. But Bond stood at a respectful distance and said carefully, “Would you still like to go to dinner with me?”

Q pressed a button without looking and locked all his computers, killing the screens as well. Bond took this as an assent and smiled. It actually reached his eyes, and it wasn’t smarmy or suggestive or anything other than glad. Q allowed himself the luxury of basking in that smile for all of five seconds.

“If you make advances I am leaving,” Q warned Bond as he stood and reached for his coat. He wouldn’t need his extra jumper; he’d mapped out the possible pubs and all of them were far enough to warrant a cab.

Bond nodded, and helped him put on his coat. Q blushed a little. This was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He’s terrified of being too close for months, and now, after one dream, he’s comfortable with him? Ridiculous…

“Sir?” asked one of the five remaining geeklings, all of them staring to see Q leaving with Bond. He waved them off.

“It’s fine. I’ll back in an hour,” he assured them. They seemed to accept this, though they still watched warily as Bond stole their leader.

There was, indeed, a cab waiting just outside. It was empty though, and turned off; Bond took out the keys and seemed to hesitate for a moment.

“You can drive,” Q told him. “I lost my license for reckless driving a long time ago.”

Bond stared at him for a moment. Then just the corners of his mouth turned up as he asked incredulously, “ _You_ were reckless?”

“I was nineteen and roaring drunk,” Q huffed. “Now are you going to take me for dinner or not?”

“Nineteen?” There was still a smile on Bond’s face as he unlocked the car and they both piled in. “Drunk?”

“My friends were not reputable at the time.” Q wished Bond would stop asking, and he would stop answering. “And I never saw reason to get my license back. Now, where are we going and do they have decent heating?” For he had spotted the first flecks of snow, and they made him nervous.

“Yes. I’m still having a hard time believing you actually got drunk.”

“I was of age,” Q snapped.

“I heard.” The engine purred to life and James entered the flow of traffic easily. “Are you a lightweight?”

Q did not answer verbally. The flush in his cheeks and his stubborn expression were answer enough. Bond actually chuckled, rich and deep, and Q felt… mollified. He liked making Bond laugh, even at his own expense. Or, not really his own expense; it was a surprised chuckle more than a teasing one.

They… talked. It was a short drive, but, timidly, they talked. Q slowly explained the circumstances surrounding his loss of license; Bond put in light, non-offense quips, mostly about idiots who thought getting Q drunk was a good idea. Nothing to suggest it was Q’s fault; simply observations on the crowd he’d fallen in with.

“Were they the ones who taught you to hack?” Bond ask curiously as they slid up to the only free spot. A man who’d been leaning against the doorframe of the pub lurched forward, scowling. Bond turned to him first, with a brilliant smile, and handed over the keys to the cab as well as some money. The cabbie stopped scowling, nodded to them both, and took over the car.

“You _rented_ a cab?” Q demanded incredulously, neatly avoiding the question.

Bond shrugged. “Would you have talked to me about any of that with someone else present?” he retorted logically. “And I don’t have a car.”

“No, because you’d crash it,” Q muttered. That earned another smooth chuckle.

The pub was full, and rowdy, but in a cheerful, carefree way. There was an empty booth in the corner that wrapped around, and while it was obviously meant to hold at most eight people of Bond’s size with plenty of elbow room, Bond and Q were led there immediately, as if they were special or something. But no, it must just be Bond’s regular table, because he was hailed all the way there, and he actually smiled, for true, the kind of smile he’d shown Q. Comfortable, glad to be here, ready for a drink or two or five. And it was a real smile, Q could feel that. It made him a little jealous. _He_ wanted those smiles too.

But when Bond turned the expression on him, he blushed and looked away. He like the feel of it, though.

Bond took great care not to touch him.

Once they had reached the booth, they sat on opposite ends—and then both slid to the middle, Bond getting there first. Q scowled, but didn’t argue. Bond was the one who needed to be able to command a view of the whole pub. Q just wanted his back to the wall because he was nervous. And he did have his back to the wall, now, even if it did mean being a little closer to Bond than he would’ve liked.

“I don’t usually bring coworkers here,” Bond murmured, only just loud enough for Q to hear. “You’re going to be something of a novelty, I’m afraid.”

“You mean you don’t bring men here,” Q whispered back.

“I’ve brought men. Just never alone. And I wasn’t working with them.” Something about the tightness of his mouth, the darkening of his eyes, told Q to steer the conversation away from the subject of companions and motives.

Abruptly he asked, because it was the first inane thing that came to mind, “What do they have here?”

Bond seized the subject gladly. “Oh, lots of things. This is a worker’s pub, though, nothing fancy. I usually get the steak and chips.”

“Stew? I’m going to be working late tonight.”

“Absolutely. Georgina, light of my life!” Bond greeted the strapping woman in an apron who strode up beside the table, “One stout, one bitter, and…?”

“Water please,” Q added, looking up and feeling like he should apologize for his rejection of alcohol. “I’m… not used to beer.”

Georgina smiled, brown eyes flashing, but only with mischief. “’S alright, lad, we all have our tastes,” she assured him genially. Then she scowled playfully at Bond. “An’ what’re ye thinkin’, bringing a poor lil fellow as canna abide a good brew?”

“This is Q,” Bond said, as if that explained everything.

And apparently it did, because the mischief grew to downright wickedness, and Georgina let out a long “Ohhh,” of understanding. “I’ll be right back with yer drinks, lads,” she announced cheerfully, and vanished like magic.

Q glared at Bond. “You told them about me?”

“Even _I_ get a little too drunk sometimes,” Bond defended himself, flippant and unrepentant. Q blushed, pleased, angry, and confused all at once.

“Why did you order two kinds of beer?” he asked.

“You’re very bad at changing subjects. I like both, so I order both.” Bond leaned back and, very casually, put his arms along the back of the booth. Since this put his hand right behind Q’s head, Q was justifiably nervous; but when nothing happened, he relaxed, and let the sounds, sights, and smells wash over him.

This was a good place. There were a few televisions on, but no one was watching them. Everyone seemed relaxed and cheerful. The smell of food, of grease and gravy and greens, was only just hidden by the inevitable, perpetual linger of hard-working human. There was a hint of smoke, a bit of fish (although that could’ve been from the kitchen too), and mostly sweat. Voices occasionally rose, but it was always in laughter, and there were multiple languages being spoken. Q seemed to be the only one not a little bit rough around the edges. That must be why Bond liked it here.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Bond reminded him, after a few minutes of letting Q take in the scenery.

“Hmm? Oh. Ah. Yes. They did. Teach me to hack.” Q licked his lips nervously, wishing Georgina would come back with their drinks. “They also taught me how to build all manner of programs, but those don’t matter.”

“Sure they do.” Bond turned just a titch in his seat and eyed Q curiously. “What kinds of programs?”

And Q found himself explaining the various illegal activities he and his “friends” had gotten up to, before Q had been caught and taken in by—here he said “our boss” instead of using names. And besides, it felt more… more intimate, to share anything. It was silly, but it made Q happy. He wanted to be happy. He was desperate to be happy.

“I don’t think mum would’ve been pleased, if she’d been around,” Q accidentally mentioned—and then his throat closed and the tentative happiness vanished. By this time their drinks had arrived and they’d given their orders for food; and Bond was watching him thoughtfully over the rim of his glass.

“You’ve never said anything about your parents,” Bond coaxed carefully.

“Haven’t got any anymore,” Q grunted, and downed the last of his water. “Father left us, mum died in the line of duty. That’s why I fell in with the others.”

Bond nodded and said no more. He didn’t even have a chance, because Georgina returned with their food, set it out deftly, and pointed sternly at Bond, “Naow, don’t go makin’ th’ wee lad cry, or _I’ll_ give ye somethin’ ta cry about.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Bond replied calmly, with a charming smile. She gave him a glare, then smiled kindly at Q, who blushed again, and then the tall woman bustled off, smacking a particularly rowdy customer upside the head as she went.

“I hate being called ‘lad’,” Q muttered.

“Eat your stew,” Bond commanded gently. “You’ll feel better.”

And, indeed, it was a fortifying meal. Q relaxed enough to ask for a (small) glass of cider, and after three deep mugs of beer Bond seemed equally open. He told the most ridiculous stories of missions that had gone wonky, but hadn’t failed; at first Q was very good at hiding his smiles, but at the third glass of cider he was chuckling openly, and then, at a particularly complicated incident involving goats, a matchmaking father, and a deep misunderstanding of a single thank-you, Q actually laughed aloud. Thankfully, the rest of the pub didn’t notice. Bond, however, smiled broad and triumphant.

Somehow, Q had ended up stealing chips off Bond’s plate; and Bond was quite adept at sneaking spoonfuls of stew. So Q was not surprised when Bond did the picking of a chip and popping it in Q’s mouth when he opened it to laugh. He was also just buzzed enough to retaliate by dumping a spoonful of stew down Bond’s gullet with his own spoon.

That was all. They did not continue like that. But something very deep in Q’s stomach shivered happily, and when Bond put his arm around Q’s shoulders, gently, Q snuggled right up against him and was utterly content.

~~~

James walked Q back to headquarters. James may foolhardy, pig-headed, and occasionally brave, but he still could not make himself ask to hold Q’s hand. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that Q had smiled. Q had _laughed_. Q had touched him affectionately of his own free will. Surely this was a sign.

A sign of what, exactly? A sign that Q cared, or a sign that he was just drunk? He did say he was a lightweight… and James himself had been drunk on Q’s carefree smile. Also the fact that Q had actually done that thing where you feed each other, usually because you’re being lovey-dovey; he’d never do that sober. Not even the once. But it meant quite a bit to James.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” he asked for the third time, as they stepped out of the lift and into the main corridor of Q-branch.

“Hmm?” Q had been leaning his head on James’ shoulder the whole ride, and now he smiled sleepily up at James. “Yeah. I’ll sleep it off in the break room and then—“

“INCOMING!”

James and Q ducked just as something flat, circular, and whirring frantically zoomed over their heads. Q stared after the thing, jaw dropping; James rounded on the pack of people pelting towards them, three of them carrying what looked like improvised butterfly-nets. They paid little to no attention to the two standing frozen in front of the lift. James recognized the engineer he’d mistakenly kidnapped at the forefront of the group, looking the most panicked.

And then they were past, chasing after what looked suspiciously like a flying Roomba.

“Well,” Q puffed. “If there are any more of those around, I don’t think I’ll chance a nap.”

~~~\0/~~~

Q had to practically shove James back into the lift, the larger man protesting all the way. With that done, he trotted towards the engineering department, whistling “Coming Through The Rye” loudly just in case any more Roombas came by equipped with the sonar device Alice had been tinkering with.

He did, indeed, find another of the devices, bumping repeatedly and pathetically in a corner. Q took pity on it and reached down to turn it off—

“DON’T TOUCH IT!”

He immediately straightened and backed away, hands up. Up came Alice, puffing and wheezing from her run through the halls. Pulling out a complicated-looking remote control, she fiddled with a few dials and the Roomba powered down with an audible sizzle.

“Electrical current,” Alice panted, gingerly picking up the device. “It was supposed to _stay put_ ,” she glared at the gadget as if it were a guilty child, “But it got away before I could finish lengthening the perimeters of the remote control. Two more inches and you’d’ve been fried.” Alice blinked, squinted at Q’s amused expression, and asked in amazement and just a little fear, “Sir, are you—drunk?”

“Not at all,” he answered airily, peering curiously at the Roomba under her arm. “Three glasses of cider barely counts as buzzed. Where are the others?”

“Chasing their own demon children,” Alice sighed. “We thought it’d be fun if we all made our own and then had them fight, but, well—things got out of hand.”

“I can see th—“

“DUCK!” Bob shouted, and both Alice and Q did so immediately. A Roomba keening like a mosquito mixed with a banshee zoomed over their heads and around the corner. Bob followed, shoes squeaking like rubber mice, and then tripped and fell with a yelp. Q stood and hurried over to help their newest comrade to his feet.

“Damn it,” Bob grumbled, sniffling, something suspiciously like tears wetting his eyes. “This is why they always had guards on us.”

Q went very quiet and still. “Guards?” he repeated softly.

“Yes. At the facility.” Bob drew out a handkerchief and mopped his sweaty face, discreetly dabbing his eyes. Alice crept over and patted his shoulder awkwardly. “To keep us on task.”

“We _were_ on task,” Alice defended him and the rest of the engineers. “We just had a little fun too, that’s all. We’re allowed that, right, sir?”

“Of course you are,” Q replied, surprised. Why did she keep calling him ‘sir’? “It’s after hours, after all.”

“Is it?” the engineers chorused, staring at him.

“Yes. It’s… let’s see, it’s 10PM, currently,” he informed them, after squinting at his watch for a moment. Huh. Three hours in Bond’s company, and instead of feeling tired like he usually did when faced with close contact for more than an hour, he felt exhilarated. Maybe he _was_ drunk. Or maybe the adrenaline of roving Death Roombas was getting to him.

Instead of getting any of his own work done, Q spent the rest of the night helping the engineers collect their experiments. They were each as unique as their makers, and that made Q very happy; he said as much to his little geeklings, beaming at them all, and they had beamed back.

Then they had their robot-fight, and Q found himself cheering and whooping right along with the others, as Roomba fought Roomba, and instead of currency everyone bet their lunches for the next day. It was… fun.

A good end to a bad day.

Now, if only James were with him…

~~~

The next morning, James woke up with a plan in mind.

Forget dinner at the pub; what about a late lunch? They could go somewhere nice, and stay a little later than they (well, later than Q) planned; and then, later, a midnight stroll somewhere together, and perhaps they could let off a little steam…

James bit his lip, hard. No, no, and _no_. He was _not_ going to court Q and drag him to bed on the second date. That was wrong. He was going to do this properly, or not at all.

What was proper, though? James blinked into the darkness, then frowned. He’d never acted properly. Maybe he’d ask Moneypenny again. She seemed to know Q fairly well, well enough to be worried for him. But she’d set them up, too, practically. If she were worried for him, would she set him up with a notorious cad?

Too confusing. Fine. James would bumble along and try not to break any hearts, his or Q’s. He wished this were easier. He wished he could just find the courage to say it. But whenever he looked into those earnest green eyes…

His daydream of Q’s beautiful face, and what it’d be like to kiss it, was interrupted by a call. He groaned and sat up on his couch that doubled as bed when he wasn’t entertaining, fumbling for his phone. “James here,” he grunted, rubbing his eyes.

“James. Tanner. M wants a word with you as soon as possible, and it’s about Q-branch.”

James’ eyes flew open. “I’ll be there in five minutes,” he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how much longer this will go, but I know it'll be a quick wrap-up. There might even be smut, who knows. But anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

He had the dream again.

He didn’t want the dream, he didn’t like the dream, he wanted it to be _over_. Hadn’t he admitted to himself? Hadn’t he figured out what the dream was for?

But he was alone and uneasy in the darkness, tapping out calls for help that translated into gibberish on his screen. He would have welcomed James’ appearance, in fact he did welcome it—for all of three seconds. And then a wash of fear came over him; fear of James’ looming, fear of the predatory smile, fear of that voice saying, “And what are _you_ doing here so late, boffin?”

“I-I’m just typing code,” he stammered. “For… for a new virus.”

Dream-James slung his arm around Q’s shoulders. Instead of welcoming it, snuggling against his warmth to combat the chill in the air, Q shrugged the arm off and stood quickly. There was just—there was something not quite right about this James. The one Q interacted with, the real one, the one who’d taken him out for dinner and made him feel good and happy, he was _right_ , and this one just _wasn’t_.

That predatory grin widened, grew downright terrifying. “What’s the matter? You don’t like me anymore?” he asked innocently, and before Q could dodge, James grabbed his arm and kissed the back of his fist, feather soft. The heat of his skin, his palm and mouth, burned. Q flinched—and gasped as suddenly James was grinding against him, and it wasn’t Nightmare-James, it was Dream-James, all give and warmth and careful and oh god oh Christ James, James, _James_ —

It wasn’t just kisses, it was hands, one on the seat of his trousers, the other running softly up his back to tangle in his hair; it was arms wrapped so carefully around him, protective but not ensnaring; it was hips pressed against his, giving tiny thrusts, as a hard dick rubbed—politely—against the inside of his thigh.

It made Q ravenous.

He wrapped his arms around James’ neck and held on for dear life, kissing back like he would never get another, because he wouldn’t. He knew instinctively that he would never get a kiss like this in real life, so he should seize this gift and not let—

The water started out cold, but then it was hot, almost boiling, and the current swirled in a tighter and tighter spiral with James and Q at the center, absolutely untouched. And that was more terrifying than drowning.

But he simply could not let go.

~~~

James wished he could be dreaming right now.

Q had finally taken that nap in his office, around one in the morning, Bob had reported. Quite the little gossip, Bob was. He’d have to be kept under lock and key for a long, long time. But Bob had been absolutely honest with James; frightened of, yes, but also honest with. Then someone named Joseph had taken over controls, and he had been less honest.

But that hardly mattered. _Now_ was what mattered.

“Five guards up ahead,” Joseph told James guiltily.

“You said you hacked their roster!” James growled, softly. No point alerting the enemy to his being right on top of them.

“I did. I… I may have muddled AMs and PMs.”

James did not swear like he wanted to. Instead he took a breath, pivoted around the corner, ready to—

No, nothing. Blinking, James did a sweep. No, this stretch of corridor was deserted; not even a door, not even a camera. He slithered noiselessly down the hall, eyes darting everywhere, prepared for a hidden hatch or door to open—but none did. He reached the next empty hall unchallenged.

He ignore Joseph’s sigh. Now was not the time to get comfortable. He was listening intently, taking slow, even, silent breaths. Nothing, not even a whisper of cloth on the wall as someone snuck up behind him. His eyes jumped everywhere, his ears strained for a single sound.

“Q,” he breathed instinctively.

“Er, no. Still Joseph. Um. I’m gonna transfer you, Sammy’s better at this. Sammy?”

Meaning Joseph had no idea what the hell he was doing. James desperately missed Q.

“Cameras show five gunmen, but they also don’t register you at all. It’s a loop.” The calm, sure voice was like a female Q, and James instinctively knew that Sammy would not steer him wrong. “It’s a very good loop, but a loop nonetheless.” A few taps of the keyboard as James waited tensely, and then she announced, “Alright, I’m past it. It seems you have a clear run until the fire escape, where those five are waiting. They haven’t even got their hands on their guns, the lazy idiots.”

James took a breath and practically flew down the halls. All were silent, empty, echoing; everyone was dealing with the fires James had set in the labs after stealing all the data possible for Q. He wasn’t supposed to—he was only supposed to plant a virus—but he couldn’t resist. Consider it a thank-you gift; and maybe a bribe.

There were the five. James shot them all before they had time to do more than grab their weapons, and slammed into the fire escape—which didn’t budge.

“I though these were all unlocked!” he hissed, wrenching around to scan the hall and make sure no one was coming.

“Why would it be un—ohhh.” Sammy tapped furiously at her computer, then sighed. “There. Only yours is open. Sorry, I keep forgetting Q does all that.”

“Is he still asleep?” James asked, not taking the time to be surprised; he ran right to the rail and jumped over, not bothering with the stairs. They would slow him down. And he was only on the second floor. He rolled as he hit the ground, wincing as his legs protested mightily, then popped to his feet and ran in the direction of his get-away vehicle.

Where the _hell_ was everyone?

Q would know. Three taps on his keyboard and he would know. But he was apparently still out.

“No, he’s working on something with the engineers. Okay, you’ve got another clear—shit, another loop!” Tapping, and then puzzlement. “I… don’t see anyone, unless—“

James noticed an irregularity in the gravel he was run across, and leapt over it. “Mines,” he growled.

“Oh. I can’t help you with that.”

“I can,” Q’s smooth voice interrupted. “Sammy, keep watch on the current screen. 007, I’m rewinding. Ah. It’s a simple enough pattern. Left.”

James took a sharp left.

“Right. Right. Left. Left. Right. Left. So on. Distance tightened four inches each few feet. You have three yards clearance around the vehicle. Someone wants you out, fast.”

Like you? James wanted to say, but followed Q’s instructions in silence. Or, as silent as he could be, panting and calculating and watching for irregularities. No one was around; or if they were, they were being very careful. Perhaps waiting for him to take a misstep, and be blown to little pieces.

He jumped the last few feet, only just clearing the tight circle of hidden explosives, and rushed to the cab of the armored truck he was “borrowing”. He picked the lock in record time, clambered in, and ducked to get to the wires—

A small explosion rocked the vehicle. He bumped his head, swore, and got the truck started. It came to life with a rumble like an annoyed bear; another explosion. James sat up, shifted viciously out of park, and stamped on the accelerator, snarling as yet another detonation went off, this time sending gravel cracking through the window. It was a bumpy ride, as the armored underbelly of the truck took all the blasts meant for Bond, but he had soon crashed through the gate and was on his way down the drive—with no one following.

“Q,” he said.

“Here,” Q replied.

“I have a very bad feeling about this.”

“As do I. Keep driving. I’m transferring you back to Sammy.”

James bit back a demand for Q to stay with him, please stay with him—and just hummed agreement.

~~~\0/~~~

Q was very surprised when Bond returned everything in one piece, and said casually, “I also pulled all the data from their network and put it on this amazing little invention of yours.” He held up and wiggled the modified USB before dropping it in Q’s astonished palm. “As well as all the schematics, dossiers, and various other information, everything I could find.”

“What do you want from me?” Q asked cautiously.

“Another dinner with you,” Bond answered, smirking.

Q fought a blush, and lost. “I’m busy tonight,” he replied crisply. Then, because he was a fool, he added, “But tomorrow I’m free.”

“Thank you. Seven o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. See you then.”

And Bond sauntered away.

Q forced himself not to watch Bond leave; he had too much on his mind. But he did put the USB in his pocket.

Someone snickered. He turned sharply, eyeing his geeklings sternly, but none of them were fool enough to meet his eye, heads innocently bowed. He didn’t know whether to be annoyed or relieved.

The day passed relatively quickly. The budget was approved, there were no serious problems with anyone’s missions for the first time in months, and he and his geeklings were, for once, caught up. Therefore, everyone was delighted when Q finished deflecting the latest hacker, turned around, and announced, “The Death Roombas are ready. Everyone, clear a space for them. It’s fight time.”

With many whoops and cheers, desks were moved into a large, ragged circle, equipment and projects delicately and lovingly placed elsewhere. Q smiled to see his underlings so excited. They’d been hearing all day, apparently, that there had been a fight last night that they were all disappointed to have missed out on. The engineers had promised to show off their Roombas any time after five; and since it was six-thirty, almost time to go home but just as everyone had completed everything, Q thought it prudent to start now.

Bob led the procession through the door proudly, the other engineers close behind; all of them were carrying their creations, but when they had all entered main Q-branch, they all set them down, took out their remotes, and sent the Roombas skittering, hovering, zooming, or flying to the impromptu pen. The geeklings cheered and made way, eager to be impressed. And it _was_ impressive; the full day of tinkering had refined the machines further, until they were almost ready. Q couldn’t wait to have them released in the field.

Whilst the battles began, Q smiled. He loved seeing his people so animated and happy. There wasn’t enough of that. Hopefully it would be a slow evening and night; and hopefully tomorrow morning everyone would be rested and eager for work. Probably not. But he could hope, couldn’t he? These were his people. He loved them like they were his children, almost as much as he loved his cats.

A movement across the room; he looked up sharply and saw Bond slip stealthily through the door and circle the crowd to where Q stood, watching it all. Bond looked thoughtfully at Q. Q smiled at Bond, and gestured for him to step a little closer to the ring. Bond did so, craning his neck, and blinked. Quickly, he backpedaled, and leaned down to murmur to Q, “Last time I saw a fight this intense was Tokyo, four years ago. What exactly _are_ those things?”

“Guess,” Q replied primly.

Bond scowled, playfully. Strange, when had he ever been honestly, innocently playful? “Giant Frisbees,” he grumped.

“Guess again.”

“Those strange little robots that—Bob—was working on.”

“Roombas. Yes.” Q turned and smiled again. “Now, are you here and cleared for another mission? Or do you want to stay and see how this pans out?”

Bond’s eyes slid to the fight, but Q’s stayed on his face. It was a nice face. Weathered, and lined, and stern, but nice. And so what if his ears stuck out a little? That would just make them easier to hold on to, if he ever got down on his knees and—

Q crossed his arms tightly over his chest and looked resolutely back at the battle. Alice was currently facing off against Kimi, both women sunk deep in concentration as their creations continued to battle and attempt to destroy each other’s motors. Q hoped they’d either be able to fix them, or that they still had prototypes hidden in their lab.

Bond leaned over and murmured, “This is all very interesting, yes, but there are two mugs of cider with our names on them waiting at the pub, and I’m _starving_.”

That growl reminded Q sharply of the nightmare. But there was no need to fear. This was Bond. James. He would not hurt Q.

“Tomorrow,” he replied firmly. “I have to work on the data you gave me.”

“It’s not that interesting.” Bond slid forward a little, almost reached out to touch Q, but checked himself immediately. “Just personal files.”

“Which is exactly why they’re important. If you’ll excuse me—“

“Please?”

This rattled Q. He stared at Bond, stunned, and tried to think of any other time that Bond had actually said _please_ and meant it. He honestly couldn’t think of a single one.

Slowly, people were beginning to realize that Important Things were happening. They began to turn, to stare at the way Bond was discomfiting their leader.

“Just because you’ve never said that doesn’t mean I am going to change my mind,” Q informed Bond stiffly.

“But what if it does?” Bond asked with a charming smirk. Q wanted to slap him—but he also really, really wanted to say yes.

“If it did, I’d agree,” Q allowed, still cold and even more rigid. “But since it doesn’t, I don’t.” Suddenly Q felt himself soften, just a little, and he said, a little warmer, “Tomorrow. I promise.”

The corners of Bond’s mouth turned up, as the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I will hold you to that promise,” he threatened playfully, “No matter what you try to bury your nose in.”

Q rolled his eyes and turned away to hide a smile of his own. He… liked this. This… banter. Bond flirted with him, and he rejected him—but he always came back. Like he knew.

Q was still smiling a little when the next battle began.

The files Bond had given him were, indeed, benign. There was nothing he didn’t know already, in any of them; except the blueprints for a truly magnificent underground bunker, which Q saved gleefully to his personal drive before copying to the MI6 server. You never knew when a bunker might come in handy.

He spent the rest of the night whooping along with the others and eagerly betting his ham sandwich and midday cuppa on Kimi’s battered, but still running, magnetic field manipulator.

~~~\0/~~~

James did not get drunk. He felt too good for that. He went home with a woman he knew and they had a tumble in her bed, but this had happened before, so there was nothing but a laugh and a jovial jibe that James needed to get back to his _real_ lover, that cute little boffin he’d brought in yesterday.

“If only,” his traitor mouth said, and Emilie laughed again.

Walking home, buzzed and sated, James wondered at himself. He was getting more and more comfortable with the idea that other people knew he was courting Q. Maybe, soon, Q would know too. If he hadn’t guessed already. Which he probably hadn’t. Poor, beautiful, lovely, socially-inept Q.

James hummed happily to himself, a spring in his step. Tomorrow. He could almost feel those pretty pink lips saying that one word: Tomorrow.

~~~\0/~~~

Q did not sleep.

At six in the morning, one of the agents who had been at the meeting for funding found out that Q-branch had essentially stayed up all night brawling, and went straight to M for a rescind of budget. Q had been called up, his jumper immaculate, his tie straight, his trousers still looking fresh-pressed, expression calm, nothing but the bags under his eyes and his tousled hair to show that he had been up for roughly twenty-four hours. He explained ever so gently that it took time to develop the right materials, to complete calculations, to run computer simulations and gather data. He had actually finished the designs this morning, would you like to see? No? Then please trust Q when he says that he is using his budget efficiently and wisely and that there is no need to be concerned.

Tanner looked scared witless. M showed only concern. The woman who had not given Q her name (such a horrible breech of manners, but really, what can you expect from these military types) eyed him warily, looking for any sign of rudeness or mocking. Q smiled politely. He was very, very tired.

And very, very angry.

All was _not_ well concerning his research on the pills. It was too easy, childishly easy, to replicate them, and even make them different shapes; but the computer simulations just did not match with the physical results. He had tweaked the program, he had rigged tests, he had even lied to his precious computer, but nothing reconciled. According to the simulations, it should not be possible to kill someone using such a tiny device. And yet…

He’d even pulled Bob out of his giddy inventing to help, but all Bob had to add was a helpless shrug and a, “I really don’t know, sir. You could change this line… but you’ve already tried that, haven’t you?”

Q had lied and said, “No, I hadn’t. Go ahead and go back to your robots, you’re needed.” And he’d smiled kindly, and Bob had grinned back and rushed off again.

No, there was nothing for it; they needed a field test, on a living human being, before they could make them standard equipment. And Q could not ask for that. He just couldn’t. Perhaps an unscrupulous psychopath would, but Q, no matter how many times he was accused of being too callous, was not the type to demand death just for convenience.

He was so angry, that he shook hands with the woman who had called him out, nodded pleasantly to everyone in the room, and took his leave. Eve wisely said nothing as he breezed past her. Everyone he crossed, in fact, saw the icy calm, even more terrifying than the fiery fury, and got out of his way. Nobody knew what Q did when pissed off, except that very powerful people across the globe tended to end up in jail or dead, and Q-branch always got a large sum of money for whatever most urgent project they were working on.

They had a good amount of money already. Q decided to direct some of that cash to Medical. Lord knew they needed just as much as Q-branch, what with agents almost getting themselves killed in the field and researchers almost getting themselves killed in the labs—

Bond was waiting just inside the door to Q-branch. “Had breakfast yet?” Bond asked lightly, as if Q was not so furious his hands were balled into fists that shook and his face was carefully blank.

“No,” he answered Bond’s question.

“I know a—“

“No.”

Bond frowned. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I know. And I am very sorry about that, but right now I need to hack somewhere very secure or I’m going to fucking _scream_.” And with that, Q stalked to his office, slammed the door, and threw himself into his chair.

He got in to six independent intelligence agencies, including one whose quartermaster caught him immediately, and they had an amazing game of cat-and-mouse that made Q’s mood just a little better. Everything was codenamed after important figures from Arthurian legend, which was delightful, until he was firmly shut out, and had to quickly erase his footsteps so nothing and no one could trace him.

After that, he released compromising footage and documents about nearly twenty politicians around the world. Then he emptied a few offshore accounts and “gifted” the money to Medical.

“Jessica,” he called through the mic he’d placed in the head of surgery’s office, “I think you should check your budget.”

A moment of silence, and then a cry of delight. “Q, you shouldn’t have! Bless you, darling!”

“You’re welcome,” he answered, actually cracking a tiny smile.

But even after all this, he was still angry.

So he called Bond. “007. I need to talk to you.”

Bond arrived promptly, looking as sharp as ever, though from the flush in his face Q must have caught him during a physical activity. From the whiff of chlorine, swimming.

Q spun his chair lazily, pressing the button to opaque the glass walls. “Bond. I need to get shitfaced,” Q announced starkly. “But I also need someone to keep me from getting in any fights I can’t handle. Up for the challenge?”

Bond smiled slowly. “Absolutely.”


	6. Interlude with Georgina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. It starts here.

“Do they hurt?”

“No.”

“They look like they do.”

“They stopped hurting a long time ago.”

The lad with curly hair nodded carefully and set James’ hand back down on the table. Georgina pursed her lips to hide a smile as she refilled the lad’s glass of water.

Oh, he was pissed, alright. Barely three shots of vodka and two mugs of beer and he was gone. He was weaving in his seat, with a slight frown on his face, as he grabbed James’ other hand and inspected it. James let him, more patient than Georgina had ever seen him. In fact, he was smiling a little; a tiny twitch of his lips, a softening of his expression. He was gone, too; totally infatuated. Georgina knew this because she knew James, and she knew love. Hadn’t she heard enough stories and seen enough lovelorn looks as barmaid to know? Didn’t she still love her husband of forty years? Yes, Georgina knew love, and James was showing signs of an infatuation.

And the lad who couldn’t drink—whom James affectionately called “Q” as a kind of petname—didn’t seem to notice at all. Although, judging by the way he leaned on James and inspected his hands with such concern, it was possible he returned the affections.

“Besotted,” Angela behind the bar whispered, grinning wickedly, as she refilled the glasses of the oblivious lovebirds in the corner.

“Completely,” Georgina murmured, with an equally wicked grin.

Now James had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, exposing more (and blessedly fewer) scars. Q was making concerned noises as he examined them, so gently, fingertips barely touching James’ skin.

“You need to be more careful,” he was insisting as Georgina set down their replenished mugs. The water was already gone. Q would definitely need to piss before going home.

“I will be,” James promised, actually sounding meek.

“Good,” Q grumbled, grabbing his beer. “Thank you, Georgina.”

“Thanks, Georgie,” James echoed with a grin, and maybe Georgina imagined it, but she was fairly sure she saw Q shoot James a strange look, part irritation, part jealousy, part sadness. But then he also put on a smile, a bright and brittle one.

“Of course, lads,” Georgina replied cheerfully. “I hope ye aren’t plannin’ to go back to work today, not when ye’re puttin’ it away so quickly.”

“Gotta,” Q mumbled into his drink. “Computers don’t run themselves.”

“I think she’s right, Q,” James put in, rolling down his sleeves; he stopped when Q put his hand out, quick as a snake, to explore a long, ragged scar with his fingertips. “You’re not fit for polite company.”

Q muttered something that sounded like “fuck polite company” and kept his hand on James’ arm. James stared at the hand, pale against his own tanned skin, as if it were a wondrous new creature come to impart great wisdom and happiness. Then he caught Georgina watching slyly, and… actually _scowled_. He had never scowled at her before. Her eyebrows rose, automatically she shifted from matchmaker to mother, as this young pup _scowled_ at his elders.

“Can we be alone, please?” Q asked. He looked so very meek and inoffensive, some of the tension left Georgina.

“Of course, dear.” She patted his shoulder and bustled off.

~~~

Of course she’d catch them snogging in the men’s room. Of course.

Actually, it wasn’t Georgina who caught them. It was Allan, her youngest son, who had gone in to clean and run out yelping, “Mammie! Mammie! There’s two men a’goin’ at it in the bog!”

That got the attention of everyone in the (admittedly extremely sparsely populated) pub. Georgina sighed and finished clearing the glasses from a table, before striding to the room from whence Allan had scrambled, a quick glance showing that James’ corner was empty. Allan cowering in her shadow, Georgina opened the door and peeked in.

James immediately stopped trying to wrestle Q’s trousers off and attempted to step back, but Q was twined all around him and made a pathetic little mewling noise, and James apparently decided kissing was more important than discretion.

Allan squeaked and ran. Georgina took in the scene coolly; Q was balanced precariously on the edge of the sinks, legs around James’ waist and arms around his shoulders, while James stood braced and steady as if he did this kind of thing every day. James’ trousers were around his knees, Q’s still only a little way down his thighs; both their shirts were open and askew. Both of them were flushed and panting and Q was making needy little noises that James was obviously finding irresistible, since they just would not stop kissing passionately.

And then James actually knelt, so quickly Q gasped and almost fell over, and started trailing kisses from Q’s bellybutton down to—

“That is enough,” Georgina said calmly, and both of them snapped their heads up to stare at her. Q had the good grace to look terrified and ashamed; James just looked stubborn.

“ _Not_ in my pub,” she told James, fairly certain that he was the instigator. “And since ye ain’t nearly as pissed as this poor wee lad, I have half a mind to cry molestation.”

“He’s not—he didn’t—I mean—“ Q stuttered, and tears actually began to collect in his eyes, as humiliation flooded his face. James was instantly on his feet, holding Q close and gentle, murmuring comforting things. Georgina sighed and slipped into the room, closing the door firmly behind her and crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’m sorry!” Q choked out, “I’m sorry, James, I wasn’t thinking, I don’t know why I thought—“

“No, it’s alright, it’s alright,” James soothed, stroking Q’s curls. “It was my fault, too.”

“But I _kissed_ you!”

“And I kissed back. Q, I…” Then James remembered Georgina, and actually flushed. Good. At least he knew he was in the wrong. “Can we have some privacy?” he growled.

“Not until ye promise not to do this on my property ever again,” Georgina replied firmly.

“I promise,” the boys said in unison, Q still muffled by James’ shoulder.

Georgina nodded. “You’re good boys,” she told them gently. “I’d hate to throw ye out just because you got a little carried away. You stayin’ for another drink, or are you goin’ home?”

James looked to Q for an answer. Q raised his head, fixing his glasses, and mumbled, “Home.”

Georgina was torn between laughing and frowning at the way James’ face lit up. He may be romantically attached, but there were just some things about James that never changed. And right now, Georgina was very sure that was not a good thing.


	7. Chapter 7

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